Musings of a Hairy, Bitter Cynic

The power on my laptop is dying which means after I get this posted I will have to get up and go all the way over theeeeere as Mek would say, to get the chord.
Oh, mine is a tortured soul, suffering for its art.
Tagging this for spoiler warnings. Not really sure why, because everyone who's reading this will have already read the first ever draft of Dollface. Which reminds me. I still need to remember where we keep our matches now. Mom moved them from the pasta cupboard for reasons I still haven't fathomed.

And before I post my little tirade/musing, I am going to post some stuff from Mek, from a conversation we had the other night. Because it's damn feature-worthy and I may very well put it in the end of Dollface if it ever gets published, if Mek allows, of course.
Do you?
(Slightly edited into a suitable format for reading. All I did was put some punctuation in, really. Hope s'okay.

Honestly?
The TV said life would be fair. Every bit of fiction out there said life would be fair. The good guys win, the bad guys lose, and everyone gets what they deserve in the end. The television taught us that we would grow up to be rock stars or famous authors or celebrities or doctors. That our dreams would come true if only we tried hard enough and believed hard enough.
So we become adults and spend our lives in a daze because most of us didn't become rock stars and what did we do wrong? We believed what we were taught, that's what we did wrong.
I remember I was a senior in high school. And everyone, everyone up until then had told me that life was short, enjoy what you got. And then this guy comes in.
"Attention students, life is really damn long. You need to work hard now so you don't hate the last sixty or seventy years of your life."
...
WHY THE FUCK WAS HE TELLING THE SENIORS
TELL THE FRESHMEN!
THEY'RE THE ONES THAT NEED TO KNOW!

Attention, kids, students, politicians, and people in general.
Mek knows shit.
Listen to him.
The TV lied.

And now for something completely unrelated--I just put that up because I thought he put that shit pretty damn well for spewing it off the top of his head over an AIM conversation.

Let's be honest.
I don't know what the hell I'm doing.
Right now, I am wasting time writing some stupid pointless ramble about how pointless my attempts at writing are. I also realize some people think I'm good at writing, and that as they've gotten to know me and endured my talking-down of myself in general more and more, they think I'm fishing for compliments/sympathy/attention. Or at least, I probably come off like that half the time.
So let's be honest.
I don't always feel like my writing is shit. Sometimes I even feel like I write good characters, if not plot. Because I like to feel like my characters are something new. Something no one has done before. There are butch women and there are feminine boys, but name one of them you've met personally that isn't gay or at least bi.
Which brings me to the point where I am supposed to say I have nothing against gay or bi characters. But I do. I can't stop people making them and I can't stop actual people being gay or bi, but I can damn well say I don't like it because I think there's a fuckton enough of people out there saying it's okay to be yourself and express your opinions.
And anyone who doesn't like it can't bitch at me about it because they're the ones saying I can't bitch at them for supporting homosexuality.
I made my characters the way they are because my world says that this is the way it is: transgenders are okay, homosexuals are okay, but there's nothing the fuck wrong with a private school inscribing in their rules that I must wear a skirt on chapel days because I am a girl.
And I am sick of this hypocrisy. I am sick of people saying boys can be girls and girls can be boys but I can't be masculine because I got lady parts. Fuck you. They aren't lady anything. They're the equipment I was born with, and I accept it and have no problem with it. I have a problem with people assigning characteristics and mannerisms to them.
I don't know what the fuck I'm doing.
I don't write because I think I'm good at it. I write because I know I suck at it and because I want to get better and because I feel like shoving my foot up anyone's ass that says boys can't wear dresses. That any man who has ever put on a dress and liked it isn't a real man. That I need to shave my legs and rip hair off my face with hot wax and show off my milk-producing infant-feeding glands to be considered "hot" and thus suitable for a mate.
I don't shave my legs. I stopped because no one was seeing them anyway--I go for days, weeks even, without leaving the house. But school's starting again and it won't be cool enough to wear pants again for a bit yet.
And you know what? I'm still not going to shave them. Because they aren't there for you. They aren't there for the sole purpose of being aesthetically pleasing according to the preferences set down by a society I didn't ask to be born into. Because for a moment, I'm going to wax scientifically sexist and point out that as a woman, I've been technically born already more attractive than the opposing gender, which is what I'm supposedly supposed to go to all this trouble for in the first place, and I don't see why I have to put so much additional effort into pleasing their eyes when I'm already a lot more apathetic about my appearance than most women.
Because my legs exist for the purpose of getting me places. That's all. My eyebrows exist for the purpose of keeping sweat and crap out of my eyes. My breasts are there to feed children I don't intend to ever have. I'm not sure what the hair on my chin and upper lip is there for. Probably because I get a fuckton of hair from my dad's side and my body just has nowhere else to put it.
And let's get vulgar for a minute. Let's talk about crotch hair. It's there because humans were created without clothes for a reason--they don't need them to survive. It's there to protect my piss-exit and reproduction site, and it's there to clot the blood when I shit uterus once a month so I'm not leaving blood trails all over the savanna that some rabid lioness could pick up on and follow me and hunt me down. It actually has a purpose and a function. I am not going to cut it off or rip it off with hot wax when that's already a damn sensitive area and because I don't need to.
Hair isn't ugly. It's not unhygenic. It's just as fucking natural as it is on a man's body and I refuse to be ashamed of my body's natural defense system.
Fuck knows what I'm doing.
I'm not a good writer. But I think I write good characters. And I think the stories--their stories--that they're telling you are interesting. They're different. You've read scifi and future and sex and romance and mutated monsters before. Hell, you can get all of that if you just pick up an issue of X-Men.
But you've never read a boy who wants to wear dresses and makeup who was sexually violated in a closet as a child and is now a rising electropop star and a woman that's probably slightly insane--no, I'm serious, she probably is--wants to pin down a cyborg with freckles that glow in the dark and make him squeal, and may very well be as manly as Rambo. And if you've had, send me the title, because I want to read it.
Am I hoping it will get published someday? Fuck yeah. Do I think it's likely? I try not to think about it.
Do I want it to start a revolution?
My expectations are low, but it would be pretty damn nice.
I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. I am trying to tell a story that as far as I know has never been told before.
Does the world need to hear it?
I'm sure it can survive without it.
But I think if it does, there will be some interesting consequences.
I'm Thaddeus Grey. I am thoroughly convinced I can't write worth a damn.
But I do think I'm relatively good at making up crazy shit to throw at the fan just to see what happens.
And I think you're all here because you're interested, too.